If There's A Reason
by Destined To Repeat
Summary: (High school debate team AU) Or, the one where a loud-mouthed, headstrong scholarship student enters Kings Academy and promptly destroys the order of everything around him. And inadvertently drives Aaron to an existential crisis. All in a day's work for sixteen-year-old Alexander "FIGHT ME" Hamilton. Philosophical bantering, Donald Trump, and a 700-dollar coconut; Burr POV.


Aaron's first memory is of sitting between his parents in his grandfather's church, listening to Grandpa's sermon in his best clothes, with his best posture, eagerly taking everything in.

He remembers with vivid clarity one particular line—perhaps because it resonated with him as child, perhaps because he would hear it so often from his parents in the future:

"There is a reason for everything," his grandfather said, with perfect conviction. "And if someday you are in doubt, know that you will always be able to find that reason right here." He put his hand lovingly on the Bible in front of him. "In God's word."

* * *

He remembers his grandfather on his deathbed, their last conversation, torn between wanting to hold on to his fading grandfather for dear life and running away.

He was eleven, and Grandpa had just one last sermon left in him.

"Your name," he said. "Aaron. You've done research on your namesake, of course, haven't you?"

"Of course," said Aaron. "Aaron was the brother of Moses, known for his pure heart and his service in the Temple."

"That's true. But he also had another important job. He was a peacemaker."

"A…peacemaker?"

"That's right. He would bring estranged people together. He would figure out what each side of the fight wanted to hear and help bridge the gap between the two sides. And that must be your job as well, Aaron. Get out there and be successful. Bring people together. Be a peacemaker."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Aaron asked, kind of overwhelmed.

"It's not that hard. All you need to do is have the ability to convince people. In order to convince people, they need to like you. And in order to life you, you need to be similar to them. It's as easy as that."

"But…I can't be similar to _everyone,"_ Aaron protested, confused. "I mean, everyone is different. _I'm_ different. I'm not like everyone."

His grandfather put his hand on Aaron's with all the reverence he had when touching his Bible. The tears burn behind Aaron's eyes and he bites on his lip to keep from crying.

"Well," said his grandfather, smiling weakly, "they don't need to know that."

* * *

He remembers getting the call that night, the rain coming down relentlessly outside, the lightning flashing its imprint across the room.

He remember getting the call but he doesn't remember most of the actual conversation, mainly because he barely heard it the first time. He was too much in shock.

"Your parents," the police officer said, "…car crash… blood loss… Providence Hospital… take you there immediately," and then one, heart-stopping word: " _Hurry_."

He is fourteen and waiting for a police escort to bring him to his parents _(bleeding, dying, dead, no, please—)_. He is fourteen and on his knees and praying more desperately than he'd ever prayed before, _save them save them save them please I'll do anything anything anything but just save them, I need them, PLEASE._

* * *

He runs into the hospital, his clothes and hair dripping on the linoleum, and pants, "My name is Burr—Aaron Burr—my parents—" He has to stop to catch his breath, and in that moment a doctor appears around the corner.

"Are you Aaron Burr?" she asks softly.

Aaron's mouth opens to tell her yes, to tell her to take him to his parents.

He looks up.

He sees her face.

His

 _No._

world

 _NO._

shatters.

"I'm so sorry, Aaron," someone is saying from very far away. "They passed almost immediately. By the time they were brought here it was far too late…"

An indiscriminate amount of time passes. Aaron blinks and realizes that the doctor is still talking and he hasn't heard a word of it.

She looks at him pityingly. "You should go home."

* * *

He doesn't go home.

His vision is swimming as he throws the church doors open, as he staggers to the bookshelves in the back, as he pulls down the Bible he had read from a thousand times before.

He slams the book down on the pulpit, his throat burning, his chest burning, his eyes burning, flipping through the pages, catching glimpses of the verses.

"If there's a reason for everything," he says, between searing breaths. His hands tremble on the pages, "then show it to me now. Show me why you took them!"

 _("…The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron…")_

His hands tremble on the pages. "That's not it…"

 _("…You shall utterly destroy them; neither shall you make a covenant with them, nor be gracious to them…")_

"No…"

 _("…We know that God does not listen to sinners. He listens to the godly person who does his will…")_

"No!"

 _("…But I tell you that everyone will have to give account on the day of judgment for every empty word they have spoken….")_

With a cry of fury he hurls the Bible to the ground.

" _Why did you take them?"_ he screams at the cross silhouetted white against the thundering sky. "Answer me! _Answer me!"_

The rain pounds a random, relentless rhythm against the glass. Lightning flares, blinding and beautiful, and disappears just as quickly.

Aaron falls to his knees.

He is alone. He is completely, utterly alone.

* * *

Aaron wakes with dried tears on his face and his cheek pressed against the wood floor.

He sits up slowly, taking in his surroundings. The sun is just beginning to rise, painting the church in pale blue.

No one had come for him.

He should probably get used to that.

* * *

The pastor mentions that his father was the dean of Princeton University. That his mother was a brilliant researcher and author. That they were kind, good people. That they will be missed.

Aaron sits in the first row, beside his uncle, just a handful of yards away from the caskets of his parents. The pastor's voice becomes just another part of the meaningless static around him.

 _Is that all they are now?_ he wonders, staring at the polished wood. _Is this their legacy? Two cold bodies, a will, a couple of epithets on a piece of stone?_

 _And me._

It must be him, then. He must be everything his parents couldn't. He must succeed.

For their sakes.

* * *

People are thoughtless.

People are thoughtless and insensitive and stupid, and Aaron had always known that but it had never mattered so much before his house was full of people giving him food and trying to be sorry for his loss.

"They were such good people, Aaron," one older woman says, patting his hand. His skin crawls. "I just knew something horrible would happen that night. I should have warned your parents not to drive… But it's all for the best. I suppose they're at peace now, aren't they?"

Aaron would like to tell _her_ to go be at peace, but he knows he can't. He is Aaron the peacemaker. Aaron who is likeminded with everyone. He makes a vague, evasive response and another guest, a man in his sixties, comes over to sit by them and ramble semi-unintelligibly.

He just wants to be alone.

He nods and smiles at his audience.

 _You should have died,_ he thinks. _You should all have died before my parents deserved to._

Aaron chuckles politely at an amusing story of his mother. He hates every single one of them.

They don't deserve to live any more than his parents did ( _far less than his parents did_ ), but there is a reason for everything and he is willing to wait for it.

* * *

He is sixteen and in his sophomore year of pre-law at Princeton University (they could hardly deny the request for early admission from the son of their late Dean). He is sixteen and living alone in an enormous, empty house, and technically still attending eleventh grade at Kings Academy. 'Technically' because there is no real reason he should still be humoring high school, aside from the perverse pleasure in proving he can excel as a college student, a high school student, and the head of the Kings Academy debate team simultaneously.

He is sixteen and having his first affair.

Theodosia, the affair in question, is texting in bed as she usually does right after the two of them are finished. He glances over to her and catches a glimpse of the name on her phone. James.

Theodosia turns to him with an apologetic smile. "Ari, I have to head back."

"Right," says Aaron.

"I'm so sorry," she says, leaning over to kiss him. "You know I love you, right?"

"Sure," he says.

Theodosia pats his arm and climbs out of bed and goes to gather her clothes, and Aaron stares at the ceiling and wishes he were the courageous sort of person capable of telling her that he wants more than this. That he wants her forever.

Still. A more courageous person would have been hard-pressed for the subtlety required in a clandestine relationship. And if this is all of Theodosia he can get, he's willing to take it rather than be left with nothing at all.

* * *

Everything changes, as it always does, at the most anticlimactic of times.

It's a grey, dreary Tuesday in September on the second week of school that he meets Alexander. Or maybe _encounters_ is a better word.

"Excuse me?" a voice asks behind him. "Are you Aaron Burr?"

"Depends," says Aaron, turning from his locker. "Who's asking?"

The boy in front of him is one he's never seen before, and that's in and of itself a surprise – Kings Academy is one of the most illustrious and expensive private schools in the country, and the students tend to come from old blood.

Even more strangely, he's wearing some kind of hodgepodge version of the school uniform. His collared shirt and pants are wrinkled and ragged and terrible quality, his tie is the wrong color altogether, and his sweater is so big it looks more like a parachute.

"Ah, sorry, I'm, uh, Alexander Hamilton!" the other boy says. "This is my first day here. I got a special scholarship to Kings Academy, and I mean, I knew it would be incredible, but I had no idea it would be like this…" He's bouncing and looking around excitedly and talking so fast Aaron has to struggle to keep up. "I'm in your class, sir! I mean, Mr. Burr. I mean Aaron! Can I call you Aaron? Sorry, that's a stupid question, we're the same age, it would be weird if I didn't call you Aaron, but you're kind of a legend here, and I just want to know how you did it – how you manage to take classes from eleventh and twelfth grades, and in part-time college at Princeton… What are you still doing in high school anyway?"

"It's prudent to have a high school diploma," says Aaron, a bit bemused, once he's processed the mile-a-minute speech. "It's not like I'm in a rush."

"I guess so," says Alex doubtfully.

"While we're talking, can I offer you some free advice?"

"Of course!"

"Talk… less."

Alexander stares at him. "What?"

"Smile more." Aaron gives a sample smile of his own.

The other boy smiles back, but it's more a lopsided, confused baring of teeth than anything.

"And take some Ritalin, okay? You're making me dizzy."

"Wha—"

"Look, just… You don't need to be so…forthright. Try toning it down a little."

Alexander's gaze darts between his eyes as if waiting for the punchline. Finally he lets out a little laugh. "You're joking. That's funny."

Aaron doesn't bother to correct him. His method has served him well until now and he sees no reason to change.

* * *

"Good morning, class," Mr. Seabury begins, as he always does. "Today we're going to do something a bit different today. We're going to have a debate."

Aaron's interest is piqued immediately, not only as the head of the school's debate team but as someone who has taken note of how rare it is for Mr. Seabury to purposefully deviate from the syllabus.

"The issue you will discuss is as follows: In a certain very prestigious medical program, after several rounds of the interviewing process, there are two remaining candidates and one remaining slot. One candidate is a Caucasian boy with excellent qualifications, the other a Mexican immigrant with mediocre qualifications. The program accepts the immigrant due to their 'equal opportunity' policy. Many institutions have policies such as these. Should they be considered laudable? Acceptable?"

Angelica Schuyler raises her hand. "Is this a real story, Mr. Seabury?"

"Yes. The Caucasian boy in question is my son."

Ah, of course. Mr. Seabury is an excellent teacher and a fair grader, but he has always had difficulty keeping his personal life out of his professional one.

"You," he says, gesturing to the left of the classroom, "will argue for why that may be acceptable, and you" – he gestures to the other half – " will argue why it is not. You can begin whenever you're ready."

"Of course it's fine!" says John Laurens immediately. "Immigrants and minorities have been oppressed and kept away from having full access to their own country for so many centuries that it's about time there was something in their favor! A person of color has to do twice as well to be recognized half as much as a white person. The fact that there's a system in place to push back against that should be celebrated!"

"But isn't that just reverse racism?" Angelica asks from the other side of the room. "If a person of color is judged on a lower standard than a white person, doesn't that imply that their competency and qualification for the position are inherently lower? People of minorities should be earning jobs, scholarships, and positions based on their own skill, not graded on an entirely different scale than the majority population."

"That's true, Miss Schuyler," says Mr. Seabury says. "Good point." She throws the teacher a look like she'd rather he not agree with her, which he misses, thankfully.

"They should, and they _can_ ," Laurens agrees, "but color-blindness isn't a viable option. We all have eyes, we're all _aware_ of one another's race. And even if we're not consciously racist we're all vulnerable to the subconscious cultural values our country has been instilled with for the last four centuries. The only way to accomplish true equality is through color _awareness_ , not color blindness."

"So you're saying that if black people weren't given special privileges, they wouldn't have accomplished what they did. That this immigrant couldn't have earned that positions on his own merit."

A hand shoots up in the corner of the classroom. It's Hamilton.

"Of course not!" says Laurens. "I'm saying that since they're already judging him as a Latino and as an immigrant, and both of us know it, they may as well judge him positively."

"Excuse me," says Alexander, waving his hand.

"So you're suggesting we use one extreme to 'even out' the other. That's a dangerous road to start down - "

"You don't need to wait to be called up, Mr. Hamilton," says Mr. Seabury. "You can just contribute your argument to the class discussion."

"I don't want it contributed to the class discussion," says Alexander. "I want it contributed to the person with the real problem here— _you_."

The class goes quiet.

"Excuse me!" says Mr. Seabury in disbelief.

"You heard me!" Hamilton's voice rises as he continues emphatically, "You gave the issue to the class so you can just pick the side you like at the end and you don't even have to argue for it yourself. But we all know that the real issue here isn't equal opportunities for immigrants and minorities. It's the fact that you brought up this 'problem' at all! Are you expecting us to believe that the medical program got back to your son and said, 'Oh, hey, we liked you a lot and we totally would have taken you except there was this Latino immigrant and we have to give priority to him, sorry'? No way! They probably just rejected him! You don't know if your son was any more qualified than he was, you just looked at his race and assumed that was the entirety of his being. And hey, maybe they took the other guy because he was an immigrant, maybe they took him because he was better, maybe a combination of the two. But you know what? You would never have brought this 'issue' up if your son had lost to a white guy. So you see, Mr. Seabury, it's not us who should be working out this problem. It's _you_."

The classroom is utterly silent.

And then Anglica starts clapping. And then John. And then Eliza Schuyler, and then Lafayette and Mulligan, and then the entire room is a tumult of clapping and cheering. Alexander looks around, shocked, before his face splits into a smile so bright and so innocent that for a moment he seems far younger than his sixteen years.

"Mr. Hamilton." Mr. Seabury is shaking. "Go. To. The. Office. _Now_."

And Hamilton gets to his feet—but so does everyone else, and soon what was just applause turns into a full-blown standing ovation.

It takes Mr. Seabury a full ten minutes to gain control of the classroom after Hamilton leaves.

* * *

It is this act of audacity that lands Hamilton with immediate VIP access to the most liberal, most activist, and most confrontational group in the school—the tumblr crowd, and by lunchtime he is sitting next Lafayette, Laurens, Mulligan, and the Schuylers as if he belongs there.

And it is difficult to argue that he doesn't. The tumblr crowd is certainly home to some of the most interesting people at school, including John Laurens, an outspoken activist and self-acclaimed poet (exclusively self-acclaimed, as far as Aaron can tell), Marquis de Lafayette, one of their foreign exchange students, and Hercules Mulligan, Kings Academy's only other partial-scholarship student, supposedly working at a dry cleaners to make up the difference. Then there's the more sophisticated side of the tumblr crowd, namely Eliza and Angelica Schuyler, both geniuses, artistic and political, respectively. Aaron would honestly be surprised if Eliza did not become a famous author someday, and Angelica the President of the United States.

Of course, it isn't like Hamilton knows any of this about the people around him, because he spends the entirety of lunch period stuffing his face like he'd never seen food before.

"So," he manages between enormous bites of roast, "you really get food like this for free every day?"

Laurens grins. "You'd better believe it! Our school chef is pretty famous, and it shows. This isn't even a particularly good lunch."

"A school chef? Are you serious?" Hamilton exclaims like he's found paradise. "I wonder if I can take home leftovers."

Aaron doesn't know. He doubts the question has ever been asked.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Alexander mutters, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "This is the best meat I've ever had! Private schools don't get state funding—how can they afford this?"

"I suppose because they don't generally take scholarship students," says Aaron.

If Hamilton picks up on the subtle jab, he doesn't give any indication. "Don't get me wrong, we have food and all at home, but you can't cook for tons of kids and also cook well, you know? It always come out gross, not matter what the meal. The chicken's always runny and vaguely yellow, the burgers are hard and burnt, they even manage to mess up the mac and cheese!"

Mulligan laughs. "Your house sounds like fun. Maybe we could come over sometime!"

The change is immediate and dramatic, as if each individual bone in Hamilton's body has been locked into place. "Oh," he says. "Uh. Maybe. I mean, probably not. I don't know." He looks at his plate and the conversation goes quiet and stilted for a moment.

This is when Eliza finds the strength to speak up. "Um!" she says, her face bright red. "Alexander! You were – amazing in class today."

Alex flushes. "Oh, uh, th-thank you…"

"You know, if you had not spoken up in class," says Lafayette, grinning, "you mozt likely would have sat elzewhere at lunch."

"That's true," says Angelica.

"Well," says Alexander, looking into Eliza's eyes. "If had to kick up a fuss in order for us to meet, it would have been worth it."

The blush slams onto Eliza's face and she stares down at her own meal, struck speechless. Poor girl.

"My question is," says Angelica loudly, breaking the tension and saving her sister from further embarrassment, "what crawled into Mr. Seabury's tea this morning?"

Hamilton rolls his eyes. "I know! White people, right?"

Lafayette looks at him sharply. "My mozher iz white."

"Oh." Alexander blinks, then slumps, abashed. "Sorry, man."

Aaron would have been certain that a faux pas like that would have caused at least some degree of animosity, but the tension passed immediately, replaced by that palpable fondness already developing between them.

"Yup," says Laurens cheerfully. "You know we're all just making friends with you 'cause you're gonna be famous someday, right? So that when you're poppin' champagne like you won a championship game and makin' serious paper we can say we knew you when."

Alexander beams. "It was fun! I would totally do it again. There's not, like, a place where I could do that all the time, is there?"

 _Oh,_ Aaron realizes. _No…_

"Oh yeah!" Laurens says brightly. "There's this club…"

 _No no no no no nooooo…._

* * *

"All right, so this is all pretty cool," says Hamilton that evening at the debate team meeting, because clearly he can't be ten minutes into an extracurricular activity without overturning the thing, "but I there's one thing I don't like."

This is Aaron's life now, he realizes dully. "Yes?"

"It seems wrong that you hand out the opinions at the beginning of the meeting! As if anyone can argue anything, like it doesn't even _matter."_

"That's… the entire point of debate," says Aaron. "The purpose is to develop the ability to be persuasive."

"Even if what you're persuading is wrong?" Hamilton demands.

"Wrong is a relative term," Aaron explains. "Take euthanasia for example: two people have family members in the hospital, living painfully on life support. One pulls the plug, one doesn't. Both consider themselves right." Alex opens his mouth, but Aaron continues, "The point of the debate team is to develop the skills to understand and argue either side, not to decide which opinion is objectively 'right.'"

Alexander makes a face. "So you don't even believe in what you're arguing for? What's the point?"

"You must be convincing if you want to be influential," Aaron replies, easy as breathing.

"Great," says Hamilton. "And then you can be a master of useless rhetoric, like Socrates or something."

"Socrates was an enormously influential philosophical and political figure." Aaron crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. "He was responsible for the creation of the Socratic Method – still considered the ideal education approach until today – and for proving the existence of the soul."

"Yeah, but he did all that by disproving other people, not by having any real opinions of his own," Alexander replies. "What good are his convictions if he could've debated the other side too, if asked?"

The jab at the debate team—at its leader—is obvious, but Aaron seems to be the only one whose hackles rise. Everyone else is staring at Alexander wide-eyed, their expression showing nothing but fascination and respect.

"Socrates redeemed himself at the end of his life by dying for what he believed in—namely, his own contributions to society. Which is kind of self-centered, but hey, at least he stood for something. There were some opinions he simply would not argue for. In his refusal to take on his enemies' perspective, he became immortalized. That's the premise of his proof for the soul. But you…" Hamilton stops, looks hard at Aaron. "If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?"

"Woah," Laurens breathes, his eyes shining with awe. " _Dude."_

"Who is this guy?" someone else asks. A swell of admiration and curiosity rises in murmurs and furtive looks at the new scholarship student, in the way everyone moves just a little bit closer, as if not wanting to miss a thing.

And Aaron burns and bites his tongue and _waits_.

* * *

He comes home, as always, to a dark house with long echoing hallways and endless, empty rooms.

He doesn't bother to turn on the living room light. It's not like anyone is coming, anyway.

* * *

It had never occurred to Aaron to appreciate the fact that every day for over two years they had gotten through the recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance without incident.

Of course, Aaron's life post-Alexander is just chock-full of fun little surprises apparently, because they begin the Pledge and one voice rises immediately above the rest.

"I pledge allegiance…to the flag… of _the United States of America…."_

Aaron doesn't even bother looking over to see who it is.

"And to the republic," Alexander is saying fervently, his eyes closed, "for which it stands… One nation!"

"Mr. Hamilton…" says Ms. Valez.

"Under God _–_ _indivisible—_!"

"Mr. Hamilton, sit down."

"WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR _ALL_!" Alex finishes, punching a fist into the air.

* * *

"I can't believe," Alex grouses at lunch over his vegetable lasagna, "I got sent to the principal's office for _patriotism_."

"That's two days in a row," says Mulligan, practically beaming with pride.

"What happened?" Lafayette demands. "Ze whole school waz talking about it after you left!"

"I told him the truth!" says Alex heatedly. "That I was being persecuted for the love of my country. And if I must endure maltreatment for that love, then so be it!"

"And what did Washington say?" Laurens asks, wide-eyed.

"Nothing! He just sighed and rubbed his forehead for a long time… and then finally he just let me go back to class!"

The group of kids around him breaks into admiring murmurs.

Across the table, Thomas Jefferson turns to Aaron with raised eyebrows and says, "Looks like the Inexplicable Hamilton Charm has claimed another victim."

Aaron takes his time chewing and considering his response. He doesn't particularly want to align himself with Jefferson, a brilliant but unfailingly self-seeking orator whose impulsiveness rivals only Hamilton's; nor does he want to offend an important member of his debate team…

"Everybody loves to root for a nuisance," is what he finally settles on, neither an agreement nor an argument.

"Still," says Thomas with a knowing look, "it must be nice to have Washington in your pocket."

* * *

The day rolls to an end, and, because the universe hates him, the first thing Alexander does when class lets out is _join the debate team_. Of _course._

It takes every bit of Aaron's considerable restraint to not sound as hysterical as he feels when he asks Hamilton why he's considering this extracurricular activity in particular.

"Because I wanna convince people of stuff!" comes the enthusiastic (if not at all surprising) response.

Aaand, yup, there it is, the headache he knew he would get from this conversation, right on cue. "That's not what the debate team is for."

"Right, I remember," Alex says, rolling his eyes. "It's not for learning _what_ to say, but _how_ to say it."

"Exactly. Debate will refine your ability to get a point across—although I'm not sure that applies in your case, since _refine_ means to enhance something that's already there."

Alex glares.

"I'm kidding," Aaron assures him, even though he hadn't been. "Anyway, debating a point has nothing to do with personal values. That's why you can argue anything. Regardless of what you personally think, if you're given the topic of abortion, you argue for it. If you're given the topic of war, you argue for it. If you're given the topic of Nazism, you argue for it."

Shock breaks across Alex's face. "You agree with the Nazis?" he asks, wide-eyed.

Aaron grits his teeth. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying it's not about the _topic,_ it's about developing the skills to argue any topic."

"But you're saying you could defend them! Which means you think that the Nazis are defendable!"

"It's not about that! You can argue a point you don't agree with."

"That doesn't make any sense," says Alex, crossing his arms. "You should only be able to defend what's right. That's what makes it _right_."

This is when Aaron knows his eleventh grade experience has pretty much gone to pot.

* * *

Aaron goes to church every Sunday without fail. He nods when it's called for. He murmurs in appreciation when it's called for. He looks somber when it's called for. He's become so good at it that he barely has to pay attention to look as if he's the most devout Christian in the place.

He goes to his knees and clasps his hands and mimes his weekly impassioned prayer, as he's done for the past two years.

* * *

It is exactly zero-percent surprising that, as time passes, Alexander ends up falling into step with the tumblr crowd, but Aaron can't help but be helplessly and resentfully astonished by how quickly he becomes one of their own, as if he was never _not_ there in the first place.

Today, for instance, the four boys are using their study period to muck around in the library about ten feet away from where Aaron is trying to study.

At least two of them are trying to be productive; Hamilton is reading and Laurens is working on his next great American poem. A limerick, maybe.

Laurens pauses in his writing and nibbles on the end of his pencil thoughtfully. For whatever reason, the action seems to draw Alexander's attention and keep it.

"What rhymes with slavery aside from bravery?" he asks the other three.

Alex shakes out of his reverie and takes a moment to consider that. "Knavery?"

"Cave-ery," says Lafayette.

"Not a word, dude," Laurens mutters, and goes back to his scribbling.

"Sure it iz! It is ze exploration of caves on a nightly basis."

Mulligan snorts. "How about Davery—the exploration of Daves on a nightly basis."

They all laugh.

"Savory!" says Laurens.

Alex points at him. "Yes!"

Laurens's face falls. "But it doesn't make any sense in the sentence. Ahh, I'll just use bravery again," and he bends back over his notebook.

"Alex," Mulligan starts, then cuts himself off with a noise of frustration. "Your—you, just—" And he reaches forward to roll up Alex's oversized sleeve, which had fallen past his knuckles.

The other boy looks at his sleeve, then at his friend. "Oh…hey, thanks, man!"

Mulligan huffs, but it's impossible to miss the fondness in his expression, even from ten feet away. "You know, I don't just clean clothes—I can sew them too, and I'm _good_ at it. I'm sure I could make you a proper uniform. No one will ever be able to tell the difference."

"No, thanks," says Alex, grinning. "I like standing out."

Well, Aaron thinks grimly. He may not understand much about the Hamilton Enigma, but that is one thing he _has_ figured out by now.

* * *

"The topics for today," says Aaron, handing out the pamphlets, "is abortion. Angelica, your team will take on the 'exclusively pro-choice' approach—that the woman in question should be the only person whose opinion is needed for the abortion. Alexander, your team will take on the 'exclusively pro-life' approach—that it's a philosophical or religion question and that the woman's opinion is irrelevant or negligible in the equation."

Hamilton looks at his pamphlet, his eyebrows furrowed. Aaron hasn't known him for all that long, but he thinks he knows that face.

And sure enough…

Alex shoves the pamphlet back at him. "I'm good, thanks."

"What do you mean ' _you're good'_?"

"I mean I don't agree with this approach. And I'm not going to argue for it if I don't believe it." And with that he takes a seat in one of the spare desks at the side of the room.

Aaron looks behind him at the rest of the team hoping to see some of the same exasperation he feels, but all he sees is affection, adoration, and grudging respect. And the unmistakable shine of _something else_ in the eyes of Eliza Schuyler and John Laurens.

Aaron takes deep breaths and resists the urge to bang his head against the wall.

* * *

Theodosia comes over that afternoon, and leaves before dark. And once again Aaron suggests going out – or even ordering some food in – and once again Theodosia amiably declines.

He understands why she likes staying here. It's enormous and empty, with absolutely no chance of anyone finding them. Not to mention it would probably be uncomfortable to sleep together in the same bed in which she'd slept with James. It makes sense.

(He doesn't let himself wonder if maybe Theodosia always comes over to his house so that it'll be her prerogative when she wants to leave.)

* * *

When the debate team gets to the conference rooms the next day for their meeting, another group is already there. Another very familiar group. And Aaron already knows it's going to be one of those nights.

"Oh, Mr. Burr," says George—or _King_ George, as everyone calls him, due to his complete dominion (of the somewhat-benevolent dictatorship variety) of the school and everyone in it, with the possible exception of Principal Washinton. "Your debate team is in the science lab tonight. The drama club will be using the conference rooms."

King George's posse nod eagerly in agreement.

This is hardly the first time King George has relocated another team for the benefit of his drama club, and it certainly will not be the last. George's sovereignty is insane, of course, and unjust, but it's not like there's anything Aaron can do about it. The King and his posse will always decide where and when the other teams practice, and when—it makes the most sense to just agree with it and move on. Compliance is quicker, easier, and makes the debate team a lot less fun of a target, so that's always been Aaron's approach in the past, and it's worked. The relatively minimal amount of interference from King George and his groupies were testament to that.

Of course, that was before a certain scholarship student showed up.

"That's not fair!" Hamilton bursts out. "The drama club has no right to tell the debate team where to practice – they're a totally different club! You guys don't know or care what kind of resources our team needs 'cause you're not _in_ it!"

The room goes silent.

"Well, well," says King George quietly. He looks straight at Alex and tilts his head with interest. "Who is this?"

Unease flashes across his face, gone the next moment. Hamilton draws himself up to full height, lifting his chin. "Alexander Hamilton. My name is Alexander Hamilton."

"Did you hear that, everyone?" George asks his posse. They all nod back. "A new member of our kingdom. And a feisty one at that!" He laughs. "How _cute_!"

Alexander stares, taken aback. "What?"

King George walks slowly to Alexander, his smile nothing short of predatory. "You must be aware of it… That righteous indignation, that delectably naïve conviction in God-given rights of the common man, that frankly _horrifying_ uniform…" He stops directly in front of Alex and lifts the other boy's chin to examine him more closely. Finally he smiles. "It's very, very cute. So be it, Alexander. You are now mine."

Aaron sighs, accustomed to King George's randomly taking possession of people he "likes" (albeit not usually this quickly), but Hamilton's brain seems to have screeched to a halt.

"I'm now…what?" he repeats weakly. "No… no, I, uh… I just want you to use your own practice area because, um…" George's fingers are trailing down his neck to his collarbone, but Alex stammers on regardless, "because it's not your call to make, you don't – ahh, uh, you don't, um—you _can't_ —"

"Is he always like this?" George asks Aaron incredulously. Laurens is practically _seething_ with fury beside him. "It's a wonder he's still a virgin."

Alex turns bright red; whether out of embarrassment or anger, it's hard to tell. "Look, Mister… _whoever_ you… You can't just tell us what we think! The conference room is ours, and we chose it because it's the best fit for our team's needs. All human beings have the right to decide what's best for them!"

"Oh you're just adorable," King George croons. "Oh, yes, I do believe I will keep you."

"You can't keep me!" Alexander splutters. "I'm a _person_!"

"Of course you are," says King George sweetly. Finally he releases Alex's chin and looks at Aaron. "You're in the lab tonight."

"Sure," says Aaron. The look Hamilton shoots him is nothing short of _betrayed_.

"Smart choice, Mr. Burr." And with one last kiss blown in Alexander's direction, King George and his posse move away.

* * *

And so the debate team inevitably ends up in the science lab, now sans Alexander, who refuses to attend a meeting that "enables the tyrannical system" (his words, not Aaron's). Luckily the scholarship student doesn't have enough influence yet to drag everyone else into the protest with him… _yet_ being the objective word. Alex has only been here two weeks and it's an actual struggle to keep the debate team together when he leaves.

Aaron is ninety-five percent certain that Hamilton's pride will be the death of them all.

So for the sake of future team meetings, he goes to find Alexander after everyone else has left, and is unsurprised to find him sitting on the floor with his back against his locker, sulking.

He slides down next to him. The other boy doesn't respond.

"Are you upset because the tyrannical system was victorious, or because you lost a fight?" Aaron asks, truly curious.

Alexander doesn't reply. Which is as obvious a response as any.

"It happens to everyone," says Aaron, briefly considering patting him on the shoulder, before rejecting the idea out of hand.

"Not to me," Alex mutters into his knees.

"You know, most people are more amenable to listening when they're not getting yelled at."

Alex groans, not bothering to glance at him. "Here we go again."

"The only reason I keep telling you the purpose of the debate team—which, by the way, is to teach you how to persuade people, how to get them to agree with you—is because you continuously _ignore it_."

"They should agree with me because I'm right," says Hamilton fiercely, finally raising his head. "Not because I have the flashiest presentation. Because I'm saying the _truth_."

"You're assuming that truth is the primary reason people believe in things."

Alex looks at him, confused. "Isn't it?"

Aaron snorts. "You don't get out too much."

"People agree with me because of the truth of my ideas and my convictions," says Alexander. "Although considering you have neither, God only knows why anyone listens to _you_."

Aaron ignores that. "If your premise is true, that people agree with you because of your ideas and your convictions, then it follows that they would agree with John Adams too. The two of you have most of the same ideas, certainly the same passion. And yet John is one of the most universally disagreed-with people on the team. Why do they listen to you and not to him?"

Alex takes a minute to think about that, and for the first time he looks uncertain. "'Cause he's obnoxious and disliked?"

"Because you're poor and idealistic and good-looking, and he's not. Those are powerful motivators."

" _Excuse me_?" Hamilton near-shrieks. Aaron can't tell if the flush on his face is because he's indignant or flattered or offended.

"Your persuasiveness isn't only in your message; otherwise you and John would succeed to equal degrees. You have extra methods on your side – you're just not using them."

"That's not true!"

"It _is_. And the debate team could teach you how to use those methods to make your message stronger, instead of always defaulting to your usual strategy of shouting crude content until the other person gets sick of you."

Alexander looks at him. "D'you mean crude like unpolished, or crude like obscene?"

"You tell me."

"You know, for all your supposed civility," says Alex, conversationally, "you're actually just a big ol' passive-aggressive brat, aren't you?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Of course you don't."

* * *

The insane thing, though, is that Hamilton actually does _well_ in the debate team.

His first debate is a massacre. There's no other way to describe it. Of the half hour given, Hamilton took four of those minutes to listen to the other side's opinions, and the other twenty-six to blast them to kingdom come. When he was finished nobody was brave enough to make a sound, let alone a counterargument.

"See?" says Alex, grinning like an idiot. The meeting is over and everyone else has filed out, leaving only him and Aaron, who would love to give an excuse and leave, but still has to staple the pamphlets for next week. Anyway, it's not like has anybody waiting for him at home. "They like my honesty! I don't have to sell out to be persuasive – if I just talk like crazy, they have to give in eventually."

"So your strategy is, essentially, pestering your audience into acquiescence."

"Hey, if it works..."

"If your paradigm is complete honesty when presenting your ideas, then you must love Donald Trump," says Aaron. "A man after your own heart, you could say."

Alexander frowns. "No way! He honestly presents his ideas, yeah, but his ideas are _bad_."

"Then you agree that he could benefit from being more genteel," Aaron says.

"No, I think he needs a frontal lobotomy. There's not enough genteel in the world to fix _that_ trainwreck."

Aaron resists the urge to sigh, or maybe staple a pamphlet to Alexander's forehead. "Well, congratulations on your debate."

"Thanks," says Alex. And then, "But you don't actually _like_ Trump, do you?"

"Of course not."

The other boy breathes a sigh of relief. "Good," he mutters. And then, "Wait—how do I know you're not just saying that 'cause _I_ don't like him and you want to be able to persuade me?"

Aaron raises his eyebrows. "You don't."

Alexander stares at him in disbelief before shaking his head. "I don't get you, Burr."

And he turns and walks away, toward where his friends are waiting for him.

"The feeling is mutual," Aaron mutters.

* * *

Aaron has his schoolwork down to a science. He listens in class—not just _listens_ , but _understands_ —and he knows exactly what kind of answers the teacher is looking for. When he writes his essays, he uses the ideas he knows to be his teacher's favorite, shoring them up with well-established sources and carefully-worded prose. He's not above quoting the teacher back at him or her, either. He's gotten so good at it that he can finish an average-sized essay in a couple of hours.

Alexander, on the other hand, works on his essays for weeks; carries them around with him and pulls them out when he has a free moment, frowns at them, violently scratches out some lines and scribbles in new ones in the margins. He discusses his essays with his friends, speaks enthusiastically and sometimes offensively about them, his gestures wide and his expression open. The end result is that his work that is inevitably crazy or brilliant or both, receiving either A's or F's and nothing in between. He fails as often as he succeeds. He is adored regardless.

For some reason, it grates on every nerve in Aaron's body.

* * *

It is November and Aaron is finally growing accustomed to the bizarre and apparently inescapable charm that is Hamilton; to the way his bright, raw intellect and scalding honesty and disarming smile win over even the most hardened of targets. Even Dr. House, the acerbic, curmudgeonly school doctor who interacts with the students as little as humanly possible seems to tolerate Hamilton, if somewhat resentfully. At least Angelica knows better than to be pulled in.

He still has yet to get used to Hamilton's proximity to his favorite study spot in the library, though. Aaron could move somewhere else, of course, but that would feel too much like defeat.

The downside to all of this is that it gives him an unasked-for front row seat to the soap opera that is Hamilton's life, like the time he had walked in to find Alexander sitting casually in Laurens's lap, the two of them speaking quietly to one another. Aaron couldn't hear what they were saying but it was obviously something pretty intimate.

(Even better, after Laurens had left Hamilton had taken it upon himself to approach Aaron and inform him that "it's totally normal and natural for platonic male friends to enjoy sitting in each other's laps, it's just a comfortable way to sit, also the chair was too far away, also it's the twenty-first century, shut up, don't judge me.")

It's the sheer proximity that leads to Aaron being unintentional audience to a lot of cozy moments that he probably shouldn't have seen. Like a study period that Alex and Eliza were supposed to use for their British Literature report, but ends up involving them staring into each other's eyes and talking about their innermost hopes and dreams.

"I don't know if I can keep it up," Alexander confesses quietly. "This pace I've set for myself, I mean. Working and working and working and never really stopping. I'm not even sure I know _how_ to stop. It's like…" He pauses to find the words. "You know how beavers build dams not because they need them, but because if they don't chew something then their teeth with grow into their brains and kill them? I feel like that sometimes. Like I'm working myself to death, but I'll die even faster if I stop."

A long silence follows this admission.

"Sorry," says Alex, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to get all…"

"No!" Eliza leans forward and puts her hand on Hamilton's, her eyes bright. "Don't be sorry. Thank you for telling me. For trusting me."

Alexander rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, but he smiles back.

Or how about the many times that one of Hamilton's friends insinuated or said straight-out that they'd like to come to his house and Aaron had to watch Alexander make his frantic (and completely suspicious) excuses about why that would be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea.

Or the many times he has to be witness to Hamilton's insane work habits: his humming, his tapping, his impassioned scribbling, his angry paper-crumpling.

Angelica even asks him about that one time, when she happens to be present during one of Alex's manic phases.

"Woah! Is any of that even legible?" she asks. "Why do you write like you're running out of time?"

"'Cause I _am_!" says Hamilton, still writing frantically. "This is due in five minutes!"

 _I'm too old for this,_ Aaron thinks, rubbing his temples wearily.

* * *

"For today's debate, I had a bit of a new approach in mind," Aaron announces once everyone has their papers. "Because he have some rather famous names here, I thought it would be interesting to reenact a debate that actually happened between some of our present company's possible ancestors."

"A debate between Secretaries Hamilton and Jefferson?" Alexander asks, looking up from his pamphlet.

"Yes, and I very famous one, about Hamilton's financial plan to establish a national bank. Jefferson's counterclaim was that it would undermine the states' rights. The team leaders should be obvious. Take the time to do your research on each approach – there is a lot of background information necessary to conduct this debate well."

"Cool!" says Laurens. "Are you really related to the original Hamilton?"

"Don't know," says Alex. "Don't care. If I inherited nothing from my father's side of the family, I'll be happy."

"I don't think I'm related to the original Jefferson," says Thomas, having already thrown his paper away. "The original Jefferson has a long illustrious line of white people surviving him."

"Not all white," says Angelica. "Remember Sally?"

And yeah, _that's_ a topic that could easily dissolve into a fight, if Aaron's ever seen one. He clears his throat. Everyone quiets down.

"I guess that means you've had enough time to prepare. You can begin."

* * *

It is the first time Aaron has to actually break up a physical fight after a debate, but as he wrestles a yelling, struggling Hamilton out of the room he has this horrible, sinking suspicion that it will not be his last.

" _What was that?"_ Aaron demands when they're finally away from the others.

"They're being intransigent!" Alex practically spits, still shaking with stifled energy.

"Oh, and you're the poster boy for compromise, are you?"

Hamilton gives him the finger and tries to move past him back to the room, but Aaron keeps him back.

"No way. You're not going back in there until you can think straight."

Alexander turns on him with the stance he uses just before a fight breaks out. "You've got a problem with my rationale?"

"Several, actually. First of all, New York easily had as many slaves as Virginia…"

That seems to take him by surprise. "Really?"

"Yes really. This interaction took place in the late 18th century – that North-South Civil War-era split you're thinking of didn't exist for another fifty years."

Some of the energy leaks out of Alex's indignation. "Oh."

"But that's peripheral to the _point_ of the argument. Hamilton was a Federalist. He believed in a strong central power that controlled the entire union of states. Jefferson, meanwhile, believed in the ability of the states to decide what's right for themselves. Think about it – why would Virginia, a prosperous, growing area, want to tie itself down to the other states, most of which were battle-torn and on the verge of bankruptcy?"

"Because it's the right thing to do! If they hadn't, we wouldn't have a country today!"

"Yes, but _why_? How can you make your argument convincing to a Virginian, or any capitalist. The principle of capitalism is that people work for their own self-interest."

"Capitalism sucks," says Alexander.

"Well maybe one day we'll debate alternative economic systems," says Aaron. "But again – _peripheral_. You have to work within the topic you're given. There's an underlying question here that needs to be addressed which neither of you even touched. All you've done is take shots at each other's character. You're not going to convince anyone of anything that way."

Hamilton snorts. "Yeah, 'cause you're so good at addressing the point of argument. All _you_ do is flatter and sympathize and distract them with intellectual taekwondo until they've lost the fight and they don't even remember _how_. At least I tell people straight-up when I think they're wrong."

Aaron grits his teeth. "Fine. Then let's settle for a compromise. You don't need to flatter or sympathize or use _intellectual taekwondo_ , as you put it, but you do have to focus your attacks on the underlying point of the argument."

"O _kay_. Jesus. I get it." Hamilton rolls his eyes and tries to push past him, but Aaron doesn't let him.

"I don't think you do. But you're going to get this – I don't want you debating until you can come back to this fight and address the actual question."

That gets Hamilton's full attention. "What do you mean you don't want me debating?"

"I mean you can consider yourself temporarily suspended. Feel free to attend the debate team meetings, but you won't be doing any of it yourself until you can figure this out."

Alexander flushes with fury. "Everyone has a bad debate sometimes, they don't get suspended from the team! You can't do this!"

"Well, last I checked, I was the head of this team," says Aaron pleasantly, "so, yes, actually. I can."

The other boy's hand tightens into a fist and for a moment Aaron thinks Alex is going to punch him, but finally his fingers relax, just a little. Just enough.

"Whatever," he mutters, with obvious difficulty. "Do what you want. You'd better give Jefferson a 'talk' too, though."

"Don't worry," says Aaron grimly. "I will."

* * *

The first thing Thomas says when Aaron comes over to him is, "What a drama queen."

"Him? A drama queen?" Aaron bursts out before he can check himself. "Obviously! He has no filter and everyone knows it. He speaks his mind, nevermind the consequences, and he will gladly pay the price for that honesty. But _you_? What did you think you were pulling!?"

Thomas stares at him, taken aback. " _Me_?"

"Yes! The point of debate is to contend _ideas_ – not to make stupid, immature jabs at one another's character!"

"But he—"

"Hamilton has a ridiculously overdeveloped sense of truth, and he was hitting you—or the other Jefferson, really—where his moral integrity was in question. You just insulted his work, his competency, and his intelligence. You're lucky all I'm doing is suspending you from debates until you and Hamilton can return to this one with some semblance of _civility_."

This is met by a long moment of silence.

"Fine," says Thomas at last. He doesn't even seem to be all that upset. "But, you know, I'm starting to think that out of everybody bitten by the Hamilton Lovebug, you were hit the hardest. You just have a really messed up way of showing it."

He saunters off with careless wave, and Aaron bites his tongue and doesn't reply.

* * *

He finds Alex the next day after second period, on the way to Economics. Hamilton doesn't break stride as Aaron falls into step with him, but that's just as well.

"Burr," he says, like he can't decide himself if it's a greeting or a warning.

"I'm going to Washington's office to request a status update on my academic performance, since I wasn't able to…benefit from parent-teacher conferences last night. I wanted to extend the offer for you to join me." It's an acknowledgement of their similarities, a peace-offering, and Aaron can see in the softening of Alexander's expression that the gesture has been accepted.

"Thanks, but I'm good. Anyway, I went to parent-teacher conferences last night in place of my own parents."

Aaron doesn't even know why he bothers to be surprised anymore. "Did you really?" he asks, tired.

"Of course I did!" Alex declares. "If they have a problem with me, they can say it to my face!"

Aaron raises his eyebrow. "That's not going to endear you to any of the teachers."

"Screw the teachers!"

"Or the parents."

"Screw the parents!"

"Eliza's father, for instance."

Alexander freezes.

There's a pause, and then, _"_ _How did you—?"_

Aaron cuts him off there, if only to put an end to the shrieking. "It is ridiculously obvious. Everyone knows. Everyone except for Eliza, I suppose."

So this is what it takes to make Alexander Hamilton look mortified.

"Everyone… obvious…? How – how do you know she doesn't know?"

They're outside the classroom now, which is a blessing because Aaron really just wants to be done with this conversation. "Because if she knew, she would have asked you out by now."

"What?"

Aaron sighs. "She has a huge, completely unreasonable crush on you, you moron."

The smile that breaks across Alex's face is bright and unexpected and unfairly disarming.

 _"_ _Really?"_ He doesn't seem to need a response, though; just continues in awe, "She likes me… She likes me! Jesus, really? Maybe you heard wrong… Maybe she's… Dude, she's in that classroom right now! Is she looking at me?"

Aaron regrets all the things. "No."

"How about now?"

"Still no."

Alexander bites his lip, bounces on his heels for a moment, and then, "Now?"

 _"_ _No,"_ says Aaron, pinching the bridge of his nose.

* * *

"It's impossible to discern what behaviors are internally motivated and what behaviors are just living up to the cultural stereotype!" comes an indignant yell from the side of the room, bringing the debate to a screeching halt.

Aaron turns to shoot Hamilton a Look. Alex slouches down into his seat, scowling.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," he mutters. "No debating until I can do it your way. Control freak," he adds under his breath.

Aaron is calm. He is so very calm.

"Alexander, if you don't think you can watch the debate quietly, please feel free to step outside."

The other boy opens his mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by his own cell phone.

"No calls in the—" Aaron starts, but Hamilton already has the phone pressed to his ear.

"Hey! What's up, sir?"

And then there's a long, long pause as the person at the other end of the line goes into what seems to be a lengthy speech. Alexander's face falls.

"Yeah," he says softly. The other person talks for another long moment. "Yeah, I know. It's okay." Alexander's head is tipped forward, his hair hiding his face, his arm against his chest as if trying to hug himself. "It'll be okay. I'll figure it out." Another pause. "Yeah. Thanks, sir. I'll head back now."

And with that he ends the call, gathers his things, and walks out without a word.

The rest of the team looks at each other, surprised and worried.

"Someone should go after him," says Laurens.

There's no lack of people who want to follow Alexander to make sure he's all right, but as head of the team, it's Aaron's call. Not that it's his business. They're not even friends. Aaron should be the last one to follow him.

The desk on the side of the room is empty.

The whole room feels somehow much emptier.

"I'll do it," he says.

* * *

Hamilton has already made it outside and down the block by the time Aaron catches up to him. "Alexander!"

"I'm fine, Burr," he says without turning around. "Leave it."

"Who was that?" Aaron asks, ignoring him. "What happened?"

"It's none of your _business_ , Burr," Alex snaps. "I'm fi—"

"Usnavi…?"

Aaron and Alexander turn toward the thin, pleading voice. It's a woman with wide, bloodshot eyes and dirty clothes, her hand extended toward Alex. Aaron takes an instinctive step away. Hamilton steps—staggers—helplessly forward.

"Help me, Usnavi," the woman moans. "Help."

"Who's Usnavi?" Aaron whispers.

"I dunno," says Alex, but his eyes are glued to the woman. Not with fear or pity but something far softer, almost painfully so, something Aaron can't quite identify.

"Help me," says the woman wretchedly. "Usnavi…"

Alexander takes another step forward as if tugged by some invisible force and Aaron grabs his arm to pull him back, trying to anchor him from whatever madness has him in his current.

"Come on!" he hisses. "She's totally high. She doesn't know what she's saying."

"Help me," the woman says again, softer this time. " _Please_."

The shift from Hamilton's frozenness to his sudden movement is startling as he pulls his wallet out, and Aaron is already halfway to protesting when he reaches out and _offers her the whole wallet._

The woman stares at it for a moment, then grabs it out of his hand and runs away.

"Are you _crazy_?" Aaron demands, turning on the other boy. "How much money was in that wallet?"

"It doesn't matter," Hamilton says, and the harshness of his voice takes Aaron aback; the strange fever-brightness of his eyes… "Only the worst of scum leave a woman when she needs help."

* * *

The next day, Hamilton sits out the debate team meeting, as ordered, but for the first time he doesn't say a word. He just watches with bright, too-intelligent eyes, and although Aaron would have thought he'd be pleased that Alexander was finally quietly studying a new approach, he finds himself squirming under the scrutiny.

He wonders what Hamilton understands, with that mouth shut and those eyes open.

* * *

It is sheer providence – or maybe fate – that on his walk home from school that day he sees something familiar on the ground. Something small and brown and…wallet-like.

Aaron goes to pick it up, and sure enough, it's Alexander's wallet from yesterday. It's been emptied, of course – nothing left but some old receipts, a business card from a local lawn care company, a picture of a smiling woman in her late twenties or so.

And a piece of paper. With a note, written in Alexander's near-illegible scribble:

 _"_ _If found, please return to 426 W 52nd St. No reward but my undying gratitude."_ And, well, if that isn't an invitation, Aaron doesn't know what is.

Maybe it's because he wants to do Hamilton a favor; wants to make up for some of the animosity between them. Maybe it's because of that cagey, almost panicked look on Alexander's face whenever the topic of his home came up.

Either way, Aaron has never been able to resist a mystery.

* * *

426 W 52nd street is just a twenty-minute walk away, easy and straightforward and even pleasant if the weather weren't bitingly cold. The path leads him into the heart of Hell's Kitchen; admittedly not Aaron's preferred kind of neighborhood, but he keeps his head down and trudges onward. Finally he finds himself in front of Alexander's address.

It's not a house. It's not even an apartment building. It's a _facility_ , four stories high and almost half a block long. From what can see Aaron through the windows, it seems to be filled with bedrooms.

He looks up at the sign.

 _Kings County Children's Shelter._

 _This can't be right_ , Aaron thinks, if only to drown out the fact that it makes all too much sense.

* * *

"I'm here to see Alexander Hamilton," Aaron tells the receptionist, and watches with interest and some resignation as her face lights up at the boy's name.

"He's teaching a group right now, but I think their session is almost over. Come with me."

 _Teaching?_ Aaron wonders, and follows her down the hall. They pass several bulletin boards showing the work and progress of the children who live there – drawings, short essays, pictures, the occasional report card.

Finally the reach the library and stop in front of one of the side rooms. Aaron looks through the half-open door.

It's Alexander, surrounded by children, pointing to one girl's paper and explaining something to her quietly. The others are working busily with their pencils. Hamilton tousles the girl's hair and moves away, glances at another child's paper… "Don't forget to find the common denominator for both fractions before you add them!" he reminds the room.

One of the boys slumps over his work and groans. "Why do they have to be the same?" he whines.

"Well think about it this way," says Alex. "Let's say you come to me and you want to borrow some eggs, right? Let's say you want to borrow half of one of my units of eggs. How many eggs would you think I have in one unit? What's the unit people usually use for eggs?"

"Twelve," the kids chorus.

"Right! So you ask for half of my eggs. How many eggs are you talking about?"

"Six!"

"Yeah, but I don't know that. 'Cause I, like a weirdo, am not using the same unit as everyone else. What if I keep my eggs by the 47, in a big garbage bag in my fridge?"

The kids laugh.

"It's not funny, you guys! If I wanna give you half of my bag of 47 eggs you're gonna need a basket, not to mention the issues we're gonna have dealing with that twenty-third-and-a-halfth egg, 'cause, dude, how am I gonna give you half an egg? There may or may not be a machete involved, which is never a good idea, and before you know it the whole kitchen is dripping with egg yolk, I'm crying, you're crying, it's a disaster!"

The children crack up. To his surprise, Aaron finds himself smiling, too.

"But if _you're_ talking in terms of 12 eggs per unit and _I'm_ talking in terms of 12 eggs per unit, I will probably be able to give you half of them without any mayhem, destruction, or death," he continues, mock-seriously. "That's why you have to make sure the bottom number is the same for both fractions when you add or subtract. So, for the good of all mankind, _always_ use the common denominator. For multiplication and division it's different, but we'll get to that later. Does that make sense?" The kids nod enthusiastically.

At last the receptionist cuts in. "Alexander, you have a visitor. Finally." Her smile goes slightly teasing. "I was beginning to think you were making up all those friends from school."

"A visitor?" Alex repeats, confused, turning around. Finally he sees Aaron.

His expression shutters as if the smile had never been there.

"Do the next two problems, then we'll call it a day," he tells the kids. "Help each other out, all right?"

They chorus their agreement and Alexander comes out of the classroom and shuts the door behind him. The receptionist looks at them uncertainly but leaves them alone.

And then he and Hamilton are left staring at one another, standing under the weight of everything Aaron _should_ say. "You're an excellent teacher," maybe. Or "I'm sorry."

"I found your wallet," is what he says.

"Couldn't just text me like a normal person, huh?" Alex says, strangely subdued.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Aaron finds himself blurting out before he can think better of it. "A coffee or something?"

"I don't need your charity, Burr," he snaps.

Aaron looks around pointedly at the saccharine-yellow halls of the Kings County Children's Shelter. "Um, clearly you do."

Alexander _glares._ "Congratulations, you've discovered my secret. I'm homeless. Are you happy now?"

"Don't be proud, Hamilton. Let me buy you a drink."

"For the love of God, Burr, drop it. Don't you have better things to spend your fortune on?"

"Not really," Aaron admits. "I once spent over seven hundred dollars on a coconut."

That earns him a stare. "Are you serious?"

"It was an excellent coconut."

"I'm not going out with someone who dropped nearly 1k on a piece of fruit."

Aaron holds up the note from the wallet. "And here I thought I'd earned your undying gratitude."

Hamilton shuts his eyes and groans, and then, "Fine! Do whatever you want. Buy me a drink. Buy me a meal, even, if it'll make you feel better about all the hundreds of thousands of dollars you just don't know what to do with, while poor little Alex has to hack it at a kids' home. But I'm doing this to be polite, not because I need anything from you."

Aaron quirks an eyebrow. "Well, thank you ever so much for the privilege of your fine company."

Hamilton tightens his jaw and storms off, leaving Aaron to catch up, rolling his eyes.

"And it'd better be a _nice_ meal!" he adds over his shoulder. "I want a _waiter_!"

"Of course," says Aaron, bemused.

"And those warm bread baskets on the table! With free refills!"

"Are you quite certain you're not getting 'undying gratitude' confused for something else?"

"Shut up!"

* * *

For all his blustering about getting a good enough meal to justify being forced to spend time together, when they actually get to La Bernardin the scholarship student hunches into himself, his eyes darting around at the wealthy diners and lavish decorations as if afraid they're going to jump out and bite him.

If the waiter is surprised at the sight of two sixteen-year-olds eating alone at a ridiculously high-end four-star restaurant, he certainly doesn't show it. They're seated at their table within minutes.

Alex doesn't relax once the entire time.

"You know," he mutters, "this isn't what I imagined my first date would be like."

Aaron takes a sip of his nine-dollar water. "No, I don't imagine Laurens would be able to afford a place like this."

Alexander gapes.

"Then again," he continues, "considering you'd have Eliza Schuyler with you, that most likely wouldn't be a problem."

Hamilton turns bright red, and in one movement he's on his feet, angled to walk out of the restaurant. "If you just invited me here to make fun of me…" he says angrily.

"I didn't," says Aaron. "I just. I'm… not trying to be a jerk."

Alex's mouth snaps shut. A moment passes.

He takes his seat again.

"Well you're doing a terrible job of it," Hamilton mutters, looking elsewhere.

Aaron puts his drink down. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just sometimes I really wanna punch you in the face, that's all."

"The feeling's mutual," says Aaron dryly.

Alex looks at him, thoughtful. "You don't even know you're doing it, do you?"

"Doing what?"

"Well, with everyone else you're all like" – he drops his voice almost a full octave – "'I'm Aaron Burr, and I approve of _all_ the things,' or, like, 'I'm Aaron Burr, I don't care what you say about me, so long as you spell my name right.' But when you're with me you're just…a lot more…"

"Honest?" Aaron suggests.

" _Nasty_ ," says Alex, grinning.

Aaron stares. "I am _not_."

"Dude, the first time we met you told me to shut up."

"That's…" That's true, actually. And completely uncharacteristic of him. Aaron sits back in his chair, surprised and slightly horrified that he was so blunt to a complete stranger.

Alexander laughs. "I take it as a compliment! Everyone else sees the smooth, creamy outside, but I'm the only one who can unlock the tough, tasteless center of nougaty grossness."

"You make very little sense," Aaron informs him.

"See?" says Hamilton, looking absurdly pleased.

"See what?" Aaron asks, feeling the irritation beginning to rise.

"You! Being honest!" At Aaron's uncomprehending look, Hamilton continues, "Look, you never tell people what you really think or why you think that way, you'd rather manipulate them than just _talk_ to them. And for months I couldn't figure out why, it drove me crazy. But I think I've finally got it. I think you think most people couldn't see the truth if it slapped them in the face with a two-by-four. You kind of hate everybody, don't you?"

Aaron remembers going straight back to school the day after his parents' funeral, having nothing else to do and no one to tell him otherwise. He remembers graciously accepting people's condolences, smiling at them, watching them as they went back to their business, unaffected and uncaring that his parents were dead. He remembers looking around at his classmates and his teachers with a cold, hard fury in his stomach, thinking, _If there's a reason for everything, every single one of you deserve to die._

"Most people are idiots," he says at last, unable to keep the edge from his voice.

He glances up again only to see Alexander looking at him, his expression contemplative. Sympathetic.

It grates on him. It grates on him, seeing that sympathy from a hungry, homeless immigrant, someone barely getting by on his children's shelter charity and his high school scholarship, someone who would never be able to afford this kind of meal on his own. And _he's_ pitying _Aaron_.

"On the other hand, it's that anger that propels you to succeed." Aaron opens his mouth to argue, but Hamilton cuts him off at the pass. "No, man, it's _good_! It's sublimation, you know? And your issues have got to be really something if you've managed to sublimate this much out of 'em."

"Alexander…" he says warningly.

Of course, Hamilton keeps talking as if Aaron had never spoken. "Or maybe you're not angry at all—maybe you're afraid."

 _"_ _Alexander."_

"Maybe you're afraid because you haven't let anyone get too close for years and now you don't know how to do it anymore. Don't you find it weird that everybody at school respects you, but nobody _knows_ you? Even I don't really get you. I still kind of suspect you like Donald Trump."

 _"_ _Shut up!"_ Aaron snaps, and Alex's mouth shuts abruptly, his eyes wide. " _You_ … don't know… _anything_ about me! How _dare_ you judge me, decide why I act the way I do. You have no _idea_ how hard I've worked to get where I am! And _you_ – you walk in and destroy everything like it doesn't even _matter_ , and then you turn around and tell me that _I'm_ the one who doesn't care?! I care too _much_ , that's the problem, that's _always_ been the problem, and people are idiots, and Donald Trump is a _vile, carrot-faced blowhard_!"

Suddenly the conversation – the entire restaurant, it seems – has gone pin-drop silent. Aaron blinks and looks around, and at least a dozen people stare back.

Aaron sinks back into his seat, mortified. The last time he'd shown his opinions so openly and so garishly he was begging for a Power Rangers toy.

Alexander bursts out laughing.

"Well, well," he says when he can breathe again, his eyes shining, his voice his thick with amusement and…and something like affection. "Looks like you've created quite a stir, sir."

Aaron groans and covers his face with his hands.

"So I guess I'll take it as a compliment that you never even try flattering me," says Alex cheerfully. "It's probably for the best anyway 'cause who knows how compelling I'd find it if you did."

Aaron snorts. "Knowing you, not at all."

"I don't know about that," says Alexander. "I can see you sweet-talking me into almost anything."

They fall silent, stilled by a sudden awareness of their conversation. Alex looks away.

"So," says Aaron at last, breaking the silence. "The children's shelter…"

Alexander groans. "Really? Are we gonna bring this up again?"

"You want to know more about me? You have to reciprocate." He pauses, choosing his words. "Is it bad? Living there?"

The other boy plays with his napkin for a moment, thinking, then says slowly, "Nah, it's not bad. Difficult sometimes. There's no privacy at all, nothing that's really _yours_. You share your food, your clothes, your bed sometimes, if one of the younger kids has a nightmare. Everyone in the shelter's been kind of screwed over by life. But it's not bad. Not at all. It's just…" He pauses, sighs. "They're kicking me out at the end of the week."

"They're kicking you out?" Aaron repeats, appalled. "Why?"

Alex squirms. "Well… I kind of… uh… told them I had another place to live?"

"Do you?"

"Um," says Hamilton.

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why would you tell them you have somewhere else to live if you _don't_?"

"There's this new girl they want to bring into the shelter – seven years old, been living on the street for six months, cutest kid in the world – but there're no empty spaces. They can't just squish her in with someone else, it's against regulation and they need to stick to regulation or they'll lose their funding. They were going to have to leave her on the street. And she was so tiny…and it's so cold outside… and I just couldn't… So I… I don't know. It's kind of a blur."

"Then that phone call during debate team…"

"That was my backup plan falling through."

There's probably a story there, but Aaron has already violated Alex's privacy too much for one night. "So what are you going to do?"

"I'll figure something out," says Alex offhandedly. "I hear the Central Park benches are nice this time of year." He says like it's a joke.

"Alexander, it's November. It'll be winter soon. You'll die of hypothermia."

"That _would_ be an anticlimactic way to die," Alex agrees, and reaches for the menu. "I think I'm gonna start with the lobster, what about you?"

* * *

Still, even with all the surprises and unexpected developments that resulted from his decision to return Alexander's wallet, it seems there is one more to come, because the next day at the debate team meeting, Hamilton approaches him.

"I'm ready to redo that debate."

Aaron knows better by now than to question him when he looks like this – eyes blazing, determined to either win with flying colors or fail spectacularly and nothing in between. "The floor is yours."

Hamilton turns to Thomas, who stares back, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, the picture of defiance just waiting for his turn to speak.

"Mister Secretary," Alexander begins, "you asked an extremely important question last time we talked. You said, 'if New York's in debt, why should Virginia bear it?' I didn't answer that point at the time—"

Thomas snorts. "No, you didn't. You just called me a racist and a coward."

Alexander bristles. "You _owned slaves_ , you stuck-up prick, it's not a _jump_ to say that's—" He catches Aaron's eye and cuts himself off, forcibly taking a long, hard breath.

And then, "You're right," he says at last. "I was wrong. Not because it was untrue, because it _wasn't,_ but because I never addressed your question. Why _should_ you tie yourselves to these states? I mean… Why should you get involved with the struggles of these states that will surely drag you down financially and politically, these states that will surely get in the way of some of your dreams for your future, these states who you will suffer for… and to top it all off, you have no idea if they'll feel the same allegiance toward you. You're terrified that you will become invested in a union that won't be invested to the same degree in you, and what is best for you. And that… that is a legitimate fear."

The room is silent.

"But Mr. Jefferson, I have seen a vision of the future. And I have seen that there will come a day when the states will be not only united and devoted to one another, but they won't even be all that separate in the first place. There will come a day when there will be huge borders and extensive screening processes to get into other countries, but just a road sign telling you that you've passed from one American state to another. There will come a day when the states will share ideas, share taxes, share property, share _responsibility_ for their mistakes, and _that_ —that is what will make us strong. There will come a day when someone will attack an army base in Hawaii – a state you haven't even heard of yet – and it will bring the entire United States of America to full-fledged war. Because if someone attacks one of us, they attack us all."

Alexander takes a deep breath, looks Thomas straight in the eye. "We may have different values, Mister Secretary. Different dreams, different priorities, different methods…" For a moment, his gaze skips to Aaron, then back to Jefferson. "And yes, my mistakes will weigh you down for the time being, as yours will do to me someday. But it will be my honor to carry those burdens, because we are a _country_. We are a _union_. And we are _always_ stronger together."

There is utter silence.

Thomas sighs, looking chagrined and impressed and kind of resentful. The silence stretches and he sighs again, rubs the back of his head, and then at last – "Fine. Take your stupid financial plan."

The room bursts into a cacophony of whoops and cheers as Hamilton is attacked en-masse with hugs and hair-tousling and back-slapping, and Aaron stands back and just crosses his arms, and shakes his head in wonderment.

* * *

 _Stronger together, huh?_

The winter wind sears at his cheeks as he walks home that night, head bent against the cold, hands in his pockets. He tries to imagine being in this weather with a less-than-luxurious coat. He imagines being in this weather overnight, huddled on a park bench with nothing but a rain jacket to shield him…

For all his parents had stressed success, in the end their academic and political infamy brought them little in their lives and nothing beyond the grave. The biggest investment, and the only one still maintaining their legacy, was Aaron himself. The only investment that did nothing for their reputation.

Aaron isn't sure he's quite ready to face the ramifications of that realization.

Still. Perhaps it's time he took a leaf out of Hamilton's book and did something impulsive—something reckless and stupid and _real_ —just because it feels right.

* * *

He spends most of that night and the entire next morning trying to think of a subtle yet convincing way to propose the idea to Alexander, but perhaps he is still inadvertently channeling his inner Hamilton because in the end what he does is shove the key into his hand and say, "Here."

"What…" Alex starts, then trails off as he realizes what it is, his eyes widening. He looks up at him suspiciously.

"It's a key to my house."

"Well, I figure _that_ much out. Seriously, Burr, what are you playing at? Didn't get all your charity work in last night?"

Well. He's been honest this far. Maybe he can keep it up just a little bit longer. "I miss having someone else in the house."

Surprise flashes across Alex's face, and then slowly he gives Aaron a lopsided, almost hesitant grin. "You just don't want the best person on the debate team to die of hypothermia."

Aaron snorts. "You wish."

"Really, I… I, just… Thank you for this. I know we don't get along so much, and to be honest I don't really get why you'd want me to be in even closer proximity for an even longer span of time than we already are, part of me kind of thinks this is some kind of joke, or a trap or something, but you're above that kind of thing—mainly above it, anyway—or maybe you're drunk right now, or crazy, but even drunk you wouldn't be stupid enough to give your key out to someone you hate—"

Aaron puts up his hand to stop the stream of rapidfire words. "You're welcome. I just…have a couple of conditions."

"Anything," Hamilton says eagerly.

"Talk…less."

Alex's mouth snaps dutifully shut.

"Smile more."

The sixteen-year-old pastes on a smile so fake it's actually painful to look at.

There's a pause.

"I can't do it!" Alexander cries, throwing his hands up. "It's just not _me!"_

"Alexander, learning how to say a message is not the same as selling out," Aaron reminds him for what feels like the thousandth time. He'll probably have to resign himself to doing it many, many more times if they're going to live together. (The prospect isn't as unbearable as he thought it would be.) "You have to persuasive if you want your convictions to become reality."

"Yeah," says Alex, "but there's no point in being persuasive if you _have_ no convictions!"

The two boys stare at each other for a long moment.

Finally, Alex deflates, ashamed.

"Here," he sighs, dropping the key back into Aaron's hand. "Might as well save you the trouble of asking for it back."

"No, keep it," says Aaron. Hamilton looks up, surprised. "Look, we might not ever be best friends…. In fact, if we ever _do_ become best friends it's probably a good sign that one or both of us needs psychiatric help."

"Gee, thanks," Alex mutters.

"Let me finish. We may not ever be best friends, but…well, it's a big house." He presses the key back into his classmate's hand and Alexander's fingers close around it. A compromise. "Wide enough for both of us."

* * *

 **Notes:** Okay, so I feel like this needs a sequel partly I would love to actually develop the OT3(4? 5?), and also because I just really want a scene with Eliza, Alex, and Laurens all over at Burr's house (because you know it becomes THE high school Place To Be once Ham's there), giving Aaron relationship advice?

Aaron: so like she comes over whenever she wants to, sometimes uninvited, she asks me for really expensive gifts like jewelry and won't be seen with me in public, not even as friends and is constantly texting her boyfriend, but that's just normal relationship stuff, right? lol  
Alex, Eliza, 'n Laurens: um no? break up with her yesterday?

Also a scene with Hamilton banging on Aaron's door in the middle of the night yelling "WE NEEDA CONFER" and Burr being like "alexander go to sleep or I swear to God I will sLAY YOU"

Also more Angelica. And Eliza. And Laurens. And that one chorus guy who put the chair slowly down sideways in "Yorktown," that guy was awesome. And...okay, everyone. Pretty much everyone.


End file.
